Joe Kurtz Omnibus by Dan Simmons

Author:Dan Simmons [Simmons, Dan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

THIRTY-ONE

Hansen was driving to the Royal Delaware Arms to plant the .38 in Kurtz’s room when his cell phone rang. He considered not answering it—the life of Captain Robert Millworth was effectively at an end—but decided that he’d better respond; he didn’t want people at the precinct to notice his absence for at least twenty-four hours.

“Hansen?” said a man’s voice. “James B. Hansen?”

Hansen was silent but he had to pull the Escalade to the side of the road. It was Joe Kurtz’s voice. It had to be.

“Millworth then?” said the voice. The man went on to name a half dozen of Hansen’s other former personae.

“Kurtz?” Hansen said at last. “What do you want?”

“It’s not what I want, it’s what you might want.”

The shakedown, thought Hansen. All this has been leading up to the shakedown. “I’m listening.”

“I thought you might. I have your briefcase. Interesting stuff. I thought you might like it back.”

“How much?”

“Half a million dollars,” said Kurtz. “Cash, of course.”

“Why do you think I have that much cash around?”

“I think the two hundred K I liberated from your safe today was just the tip of the iceberg, Mr. Hansen,” said Kurtz. “A lot of the people you’ve been posing as earned a lot of money—a stockbroker, a Miami realtor, a plastic surgeon, for Christ’s sake. You have it.”

Hansen had to smile. He’d hated the thought of leaving Kurtz and Frears behind him, alive. “Let’s meet. I have a hundred thousand in cash with me right now.”

“So long, Mr. Hansen.”

“Wait!” said Hansen. The silence on the line showed that Kurtz was still there. “I want Frears,” said Hansen.

The silence stretched. “That would cost another two hundred thousand,” Kurtz said at last.

“All I can get in cash is three hundred thousand.”

Kurtz chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound. “What the hell. Why not? All right, Hansen. Meet me at the abandoned Buffalo train station at midnight.”

“Midnight’s too late—” started Hansen, but Kurtz had disconnected.

Hansen sat for a minute by the curb, watching the Escalade’s wipers bat away the falling snow, trying to think of nothing, allowing the neutral Zen state to fill his mind. It was impossible to clear this noise, these events—they kept falling on him like the snow. Hansen had not played tournament chess for years, but that part of his mind was fully engaged. Frears and Kurtz—he had to think of them as a unit, partners, a single opponent with two faces—had made this chess game interesting, and now Hansen had the option of walking away and always remembering the pieces frozen in mid-play, or the option of clearing the chessboard with his forearm, or of beating them at their own game.

So far, the Frears-Kurtz team had been on the attack even when Hansen had thought he was playing offense. Somehow, they had stumbled upon his current identity—probably John Wellington Frears’s contribution to the game—and their moves after that had been predictable enough. The robbery of his home to obtain the evidence had been shocking, though obvious enough in retrospect.

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